


more

by lonelytigger



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Depression, F/F, Healing, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:20:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29326131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelytigger/pseuds/lonelytigger
Summary: “Maybe this is it.”“What?” Lexa looks at her, smile long and lazy. It causes the corners of Clarke’s own mouth to curve, just slightly.“This.” She gestures between them. The bed sheets are soaked and wrinkled. Lexa’s skin is lovely and flushed. The air smells thick with them and the starlight is reaching them even through the fogged windows. “Just…these little moments. The world seems more manageable when it’s like this.”“You are my world.”
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





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**Author's Note:**

> mind the tags. please don't read if you struggle with your mental health. i struggle with my own. I've wrote bits and pieces of this (and more, but this is all I'm posting here) for a long time now, and decided to dump it here, in case maybe someone else feels the same way, and needs the little bit of the hopeful reminder at the end too.
> 
> stay safe.

“Why don’t you tell me what you think is the problem, Clarke.”

“Well. I’ve had this, um, problem…for as long as I can remember.”

Clarke croaks the words out.

She doesn’t know how they manage to string together and leave her lips as a coherent sentence.

“My entire life, any time things have been going well, it just, um. I don’t know. It feels like—almost like I’m waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“For the other shoe to drop.”

* * *

“Are you afraid of death?”

“No. Not for myself, not really.”

“But for other people?”

“Yes.

* * *

“Lexa was…she was special.” She swallows thickly at the lump in her throat. “I loved her…God, I loved her more than life itself. More than anything.”

“But…Lexa wasn’t real, Clarke,” says Becca gently.

“I know that,” Clarke says quickly. She sniffles. Wipes under her nose with the hem of her sleeve. “But I mean, is anything? Is this conversation even real? What if this is just a- figment of my imagination. What if I’m in a coma, dying. What if none of this is real period, this is just someone else’s made-up dream. What if this is a story someone’s writing right now? Every word out of my mouth is just a letter they’re typing out, one by one.”

One

by

o

n

e?

“Well…so what if it is?” Becca tilts her head, pen leaning thoughtfully on the corner of her lips. “What could we do about that? What would our power, our control extend to?”

“Nothing. We can’t do anything about it.”

“Then why worry?”

It’s patronizing. Clarke knows Becca doesn’t mean it that way. But God. “I know. It just makes you wonder what the point of it all is, that’s all.”

“Lexa isn’t real, Clarke. There’s no record of her on any database. No one has ever heard of her.”

“Yeah.” There’s a bitter taste in Clarke’s mouth. She can feel the warm imprint, the ghost of Lexa’s hand on her shoulder. “I know.”

* * *

“Well, that was a new experience.”

Clarke closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, letting the sunlight wash over her skin. She wishes it could reach inside, settle into the ice cracks in her bones. “It was a waste of time,” she says flatly.

“I didn’t say that.” The voice hums, soft, thoughtful. “I think it was brave of you, to give it a chance.”

Clarke opens her eyes, shifts her gaze over to the girl standing next to her. Tall, posture perfect, her hands clasped behind her back. Clarke’s gaze lingers on the regal line of her jaw.

“Let’s go home,” Lexa whispers.

Clarke nods, takes her hand.

* * *

“I suppose all they can say is that they’re here for you,” says Lexa seriously. “And they aren’t going anywhere. Your existence makes their lives better, Clarke. The world is better with you in it.”

Clarke nods mechanically. She knows. She does. It doesn’t mean much right now when it’s hard to reach through to her, though.

“You just have to bide your time until things get better. That’s all.”

Bide her time.

Sometimes that feels like all she’s ever done.

Waited.

Waited.

She doesn’t know how much longer she can keep waiting, but this isn’t the first time she’s thought that. That is proof enough. Right?

* * *

It’s silent as she paints; her youtube app paused before the next song and Clarke never noticed. She’s too busy smearing shades of blue onto a canvas.

“Isn’t it strange,” she says, adding a streak of green into the mix, “That so much beautiful art has been created by people who were sick? So many of them killed themselves.”

“You know they weren’t making art because they were depressed. For a lot of them, their best art came after they started healing.”

“Yeah.” Clarke tilts her head, expression impassive as she flicks her brush, adds specks of white to dot the canvas like stars. “I know.”

* * *

“I don’t know _anything_ , okay?” she bursts, furious. She’s shouting now. She’s always cared, always wanted to stay quiet, unseen and unheard, but right now, she doesn’t. “I don’t know a single fucking thing about fucking anything! This whole world is a steaming pile of shit, people hurt each other, kill each other, people don’t care, they don’t give a fuck about other people! Bad things happen for absolutely no fucking reason! Tell me what the POINT of this all is? If someone made this, what the fuck were they thinking? How could they do this? How can there be so much needless suffering? And don’t you dare tell me it’s for a reason. There’s no reason, there’s no lesson to be learned from dead babies, or children getting raped, or—or anything! Everything is just so fucked up and I don’t know—I don’t even know how to deal with it! I’m thirty years old and it’s a miracle because I don’t even know how the fuck—I don’t know—I don’t know—I don’t know—”

“And this is so stupid. I’m so fucking stupid. I’m so far from the only person to feel this way, to know this, but here I am shouting about it like it’s some sort of damn epiphany. Everyone fucking knows this. Everyone thinks about it, everyone is haunted by it. But people just go about their day and then here I am, breaking down—it feels like I’m constantly collapsing beneath the weight of it all, sinking while everyone around me is just—even when they’re not fine, they’re still going. Like I’m still going. But I feel like—I feel like they’re on a slow-moving train and I’m just stumbling alongside it and eventually, eventually I’m going to trip and fall and maybe land on the tracks and then it’ll—everything will be—that’ll be it. I’m so _fucking_ stupid.”

“You aren’t stupid. And you’re not weak, I know you think that you are.”

“And I know you’re going to tell me I’m actually stronger for fearing that,” Clarke retorts. She doesn’t release her grip on Lexa’s forearms. “But maybe that’s just something people say.”

“So I’m just people now?”

“You know you’re not. You’re more than that. You’re everything.”

“So what matters, then?”

“This. This matters.” She kisses her, softly, and then deeply, consumingly. Desperately. “But all things come to an end. What happens when this ends? Then it backfires on me, because it won’t stop mattering. It will matter so much, even after it’s over, and if I’m the one left standing in its wake, I won’t be able to take it. I won’t be able to breathe with how much it matters, with how much I ache for it. There’s no point without it, but eventually there will be a point where I’ll be without it. What then? What’s the _point?”_

“We make the most of the time we have here. If we just…live in fear that it will be gone someday, then we aren’t making the most of it, are we? We’re wasting precious parts of ourselves to that fear, we’re letting the anxiety, the dread eat it up.”

“But I don’t know how to stop,” Clarke whispers. She clutches at Lexa’s arms. “I don’t know…I don’t know how to move forward without it feeling like I’m stumbling on broken legs. It hurts.”

“Maybe it always does. Maybe that’s just part of life.”

“But other people don’t seem to hurt so much.”

Lexa shrugs. “They’re probably hurting too, in their own ways. Everyone hurts. Sometimes differently than others, and sometimes it’s not fair. But we can’t really help the hand we’ve been dealt. We just have to—”

“Make the most of it,” Clarke finishes for her. She’s got that faraway look again, but Lexa cups her face, brings her back to her. “Will you kiss me?”

Lexa doesn’t say it, but she doesn’t need to. Clarke can taste the _‘always’_ on her lips.

* * *

“Sometimes I do worry I’ve made you up, you know.”

“You really think those orgasms were all in your head?”

Clarke lifts one shoulder and lets it fall; the sheets drop lower with the movement, exposing her flushed skin. “They say they’re mostly in our heads anyway, don’t they.”

Lexa scoffs in disbelief, and Clarke gasps as slender fingers suddenly slip through her folds. When Lexa draws her hand back, her fingers are coated. She spreads them, displaying the wet strands that cling.

“This is physical proof it’s not all in your head.”

Clarke smirks. “I mean, it could still be in my mind.”

“I’m going to blow your mind.”

* * *

“Sometimes I think if I were to die, life would just go on as normal. Well, I know it would, because it always does, doesn’t it. Eventually.”

“That’s not true,” Lexa quietly refutes. “It wouldn’t. Those who love you would forever mourn you.”

“Maybe it’s better for them to mourn me than to be bothered by me.”

“Why do you always think you bother everyone so much?”

“Because I just do. Even you.”

Lexa aims a frown at her, lips twitching downward in danger of shifting into a scowl. “I don’t appreciate you telling me how I feel.”

“I’m not trying to. It’s just—” Clarke takes a deep breath. Shakily exhales it. “Look, you’re really busy. Right? Your job is…I mean, you have people to take care of. It’s consuming. And I know you love me, and love spending time with me. But you’d probably be better off without having to worry about it because I know it brings you stress. I know your life would be simpler, if you didn’t have to multitask and juggle your obligations. I’m not your first priority, and I’m tired of making you feel guilty by asking to be. I have no right to ask that of you—to ask that of anyone, no one has that right to ask that of anyone. I’m just…” She shakes her head, grimacing, her shoulders hunching. “I don’t like how it makes me feel. Needing. Wanting you. I’ve never…I’ve never really needed anyone before. I wanted people, but no one…cared, I guess. And then suddenly now there’s you, and I…I don’t know. I just don’t like it.”

When there’s nothing but silence that follows her words, Clarke looks up. She’s not even surprised that Lexa is gone. Barely even disappointed, because she was expecting it. But her heart still feels heavy as she sighs and climbs to her feet, dusting off her pants. The house is silent and still as she makes way through the empty rooms, finally finding her bed, curling up beneath the heavy duvet. She lets it sink over her for as long as she can stand it, until the need for oxygen and cool air wins out and she pops her head out from under the covers, inhaling a deep, ragged breath.

She doesn’t know why she’s even here.

What’s the point?

Lexa doesn’t appear again until later that night, and by then Clarke has already swallowed the feelings down, stuffed them inside herself until they’re choked, suffocated, bleeding into her lungs, as much a part of her as anything else.

* * *

“I’m really, truly, afraid that you secretly hate me.”

Lexa tuts her tongue, carding her fingers through Clarke’s hair. “I don’t hate you, you fool. I love you.”

“But maybe you hate me.”

“I don’t.”

“I think maybe you do.”

Lexa sighs now, losing her patience, releasing Clarke and turning her back to her. Clarke’s eyes well; she takes it as confirmation _. See?_ She wanted to say, though she knows her voice would crack so she doesn’t. _You do hate me. You just don’t realize it._

“I don’t hate you,” Lexa tells her, and even though she doesn’t quite snap it, Clarke can hear the snap to her voice. “I wish you’d stop—I wish you’d stop being like this.”

“So do I,” Clarke whispers, looking down at her hands. Or she would, if she could see. As it is, all she sees are a kaleidoscope of colors from the tears in her eyes.

Sometimes she just wishes she would stop _being_ , period.

* * *

“You know I’m eventually going to kill myself.”

“No you aren’t.”

Clarke is quiet. Hands shaking only slightly as she drifts her touch over the soft petals of the plants in front of her. She doesn’t know why she likes them so much; seeing them, green and refreshing. She always accidentally kills them. Too much water, not enough water. There’s probably a lesson in there somewhere.

“You can’t say things like that, Clarke. Okay? Please.” Clarke doesn’t answer, lost in her own head, thumbs rubbing the firm flesh of the plant. Lexa grasps her arms, turns her insistently, pleads with her. “Clarke. _Clarke_.”

“Lexa.”

“You can’t keep doing this.”

“I know.” Clarke swallows at the lump in her throat, grip suddenly shaking harder, and the plant leaf breaks off. “Oh.” Oh no. She looks down at it, a little numb, surprised. Sad. She closes her fingers, clenches the crushed leaf in her palm. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I just—I just want you to feel better. I’m here for you. I love you. I need you in my life.”

Clarke frowns slightly, glancing at the plant. She wonders, if it could talk, if it would say the same things.

And look at what she did to it.

“I love you,” she whispers, forgets about the plant as she looks up, gaze catching on the imploring green of Lexa’s eyes. Clarke’s heart flutters; she’s so beautiful. How her eyes change colors, shift from grey to green. The strong line of her jaw. The freckles dotting her skin. The wild wisps of her hair.

“I love you,” Clarke repeats, dropping the crushed leaf, leaning forward to clumsily clutch at Lexa as she leans in to meet her and they kiss, so softly, so warmly. “I _love_ you.”

“I love you,” Lexa whispers, hand brushing through Clarke’s hair. “Everything is going to be okay.”

Is it?

* * *

“Why do you do this?” Lexa hovers a foot above the air behind her. Watching her over her shoulder. Face creased in sorrow, brow knit in worry. “I wish you would stop.”

Clarke stares at the red lines blooming on her skin, holly-bright and seeping. The relief that spreads through her body tingles. Makes her sigh. “I know.”

“Then do it. Stop.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why do you do this?” Lexa repeats.

“It makes me feel something,” Clarke admits. She draws another line. Exhales a shuddery sigh.

“Don’t I make you feel things?”

“Yes,” Clarke assures her at once. She glances at her with glassy eyes. “You make me feel everything.”

“But it’s not enough?”

“it’s not enough and it’s more than enough. Didn’t you hear me? I said it’s _everything_.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t know.”

* * *

“Maybe this is it.”

“What?” Lexa looks at her, smile long and lazy. It causes the corners of Clarke’s own mouth to curve, just slightly.

“This.” She gestures between them. The bed sheets are soaked and wrinkled. Lexa’s skin is lovely and flushed. The air smells thick with them and the starlight is reaching them even through the fogged windows. “Just…these little moments. The world seems more manageable when it’s like this.”

“You are my world,” Lexa says seriously. “You know that, don’t you?”

Clarke nods. “I do. And I hope you know you’re mine. I know—I know I’m sick. Sometimes. More than people know, more than I let on. And I have a lot to work on, and I’m always trying very hard to do that. And to give you breaks from—from the storm inside me. I know you’re willing to weather them all but that’s not fair to you. I want us to be healthy. I have to create my own joy sometimes, and art helps me with that. But I want you to know that you make my heart feel peace. You make me feel free and that…that means everything to me.” She reaches up to tuck a stray curl behind Lexa’s tiny ear, and then traces the pad of her thumb over the swell of her bottom lip. “So. Thank you. For being you, and for choosing to share your life with me. I love you more than anything and I promise to always fight for that.”

“I love you. I know it’s hard but I’m so proud of you. You’re so strong and I know you’re going to get through this. We’ll get through it. I’m here for you. Every step of the way. You hear me?”

“I hear you,” Clarke whispers, closing her eyes when Lexa’s forehead rests against her own. She breathes her in. The world suddenly has so much more clarity. “I’m here.”

“I’m here.”

“We’re going to get through this.”

“We’re going to get through this.”

“You’re more than your depression. You’re more than your anxiety. You’re more.”

“I’m more than my depression. I’m more than my anxiety.

I am more.”

**Author's Note:**

> you're more, too.


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